The Soul Man and the Commies

Mexico is charming, and it does have its appeal, however…the culture and history of this place doesn’t do much for me.  Standing on the great pyramid of the Sun is amazing; walking the avenue of the dead is thrilling.  Then I hear the language and have to deal with the ‘manana, manana’ ethos and I have no interest whatsoever. There is an old Mexican saying “Why put off to tomorrow, when you can do it the day after”  Get my drift?  It is this attitude and coming home to raw sewage spilling down the street, pooling in front of the gate of the house after sitting in traffic which re-enforces my odd relationship with this place.  I truly dislike it…but I like things about it.

I also find it odd that most of my discovery of Mexico occurs while I sit on the toilet.  This house is full of books, and I randomly grab assorted books as I make my way to the ‘little room’.  Admittedly, I am becoming quite good with odd Mexican trivia and historical facts and oddities.  Tonya has even said that I should give tours, because I find stuff that in interesting in Mexico that even the Mexicans miss.  I suppose this is one way I keep myself occupied and entertained while living here.  There has to be more than meets the eye, right?

I read a quip a few years back about asking a Mexican about Cortes.  Supposedly, they cringe.  I thought it my goal to find out more about Cortes and little things about his life that may make my stay in Mexico more interesting.  I should look into the man who conquered this country, because I too, battle it on a daily basis!

I frequent the neighborhood of Coyoacan on a regular basis.  Tonya likes the ice cream there, and I enjoy exploring side streets and people watching.  There is always something happening there, and it is just a great vibe.  Imagine the thrill I had while sitting on the toilet doing my Mexican historical research, when I realized that his home was there!  I would have to go and check it out. 

Sadly, the home of Cortes was no great revelation.  I have walked past his home a million times and never realized that that was Cortes' place.  There is no grand marker or any pomp in regards to this place, just some half-assed hippy market in the courtyard on the weekends.  I had been to this market before, and often scoffed at it as I would pass by afterwards.  

Cortes' home. Shabby weekend market not pictured.

Today, as I stood in front of his house I commented to Tonya, “I suppose it makes sense.  Why would you want to keep up the house of the guy who conquered your country?”  In truth, there is a small white plaque set into the faded wall that states the former inhabitant of this place.  I told Tonya you could tour the house, and we should try.  We walk in, and it is a bunch of government offices.  They tell us to grab some free Coyoacan guides, and we can look in the courtyard but cannot go in the house.  I look to the old lady who is telling us this, then to Tonya, “Ask her about the two murals.  I want to see the murals”  The old lady looks at me, then tells us to step inside.  She asks where I am from and tells Tonya that she will show us one of the murals, because the other one is in a room where meetings are constantly held.  “How did you know that?” Tonya asked me, obviously quite impressed of the secrets I hold.  A younger woman grabs a key and asks us to follow her across the courtyard.  She walks up to a big old wooden door and turns the key.  She opens the doors and reaches in to turn on a light.  She smiles and motions us inside.  This is an old chapel, obviously, Cortes’ private one because it is in his courtyard.  There is a mural covering the walls and it depicts the death of the last Aztec king, Moctezuma. Yes, this is the place where Cortes and his men tortured and killed the last king, so it is relevant and with purpose.  Truth be told, it is a shabby affair, the mural is not impressive aside from its color.  It looks naïve and not too horrendous for the scene of torturing and killing the last man standing trying to protect your damn heritage and culture!

 

The girl points to the ceiling, to draw our attention upward.  “What?  What do black people have to do with this?” I say out loud.  Obviously, the girl understands this and says this depicts the four races. Ohhh, I see.  I assume the artist was trying to say something when I notice the lighter skinned man is holding a machine gun.  I look to the opposite side of the ceiling towards the black folks. The guy in the middle of their grouping is a ‘proud black man’ with a big gold chain. “That’s Isaac Hayes!” I say to deaf ears. “Who?” Tonya says.  Obviously, these people know nothing about ‘Hot Buttered Soul’  I laugh at the image, whoever painted this mural, especially the ceiling, did so not so long ago, and had obvious designs on other things than the last of the great Aztec kings and must have been a huge fan of 'Black Moses'.  I point up to the posse of blacks up on the ceiling, ‘take good notice of that main guy.  When we get home, I will show you, this is no ancient painting, that is Isaac Hayes”  I look to the girl with the keys, she smiles. “Ok.  Where did Cortes kill his wife?”  She informs me that that place is a few blocks away.

The ceiling. Look in bottom right hand corner, you can see the top of Isaac.

Isaac, inside the sleeve of his Black Moses Lp, the exact replica is on Cortez's roof.

We leave and Tonya still cannot comprehend why this giant mural is not old and important.  She surely does not even comprehend who and what Isaac Hayes is, and why someone would paint him on the ceiling of such a historically significant place. Neither can I. Aztecs, on the other had, must see some affinity with Isaac.

Now we make our way to Frida’s famous blue house.  I could care less about her and I know I have made this point before.  I can say this though; as I walk through her home, I was stricken with the two body casts they had on display.  Her bed was intriguing too.  In the room in which Leo Trotsky used for a while, there is a great painting of some plum naked lady with hairy arms, and her little bit covered by a fig leaf.  I like this!  There is also a wood carving of a grumpy looking Diego.  This is actually his room that he lent to Trotsky until he got his own pad.

Frida's day room.  Actual death mask on bed.  I like the mirror and angels above.

Frida and Diego had a nice kitchen.  Their names are on the wall above the stove, Frida in one corner and Diego in the other.  It is like some 6^th grade girl was told to decorate, very sweet.

I am still not impressed with Frida or her work, but I am happy to have been to their home.  In a portrait she painted of her family lineage, all the women have moustaches and there seems to be an infiltrating Chinese guy, complete with a wiry Fu Manchu involved with one of the women.  The house is nice, and there are some good photos here.  You are not supposed to take photos in here, but I am too tempted, and when the guards walk away, I snap a few.  There is a wall with a close up photo of Diego’s eye.  This is the best thing in the house.  On the other wall is a nice color photo of Frida.  That is good too.  

Illegally snapped pic.  This could be my fave Frida painting!

On the way out of the museum I notice different color stacks of ticket stubs sitting on a window ledge.  They asked us where we were from when we bought our ticket.  I muse over that questioning. “Maybe they charge Americans more” Tonya says.  The stack of American colored tickets is the biggest stack…’It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if this is just another aspect of this country we support’ I say to myself.

Trotsky got a place a few streets away.  He had a corner house too.  It is disappointing how on one side of his house, it is all graffiti-ed and tacky, but all pro-communist and bad portraits of the guy.  His house his dull and simple.  The Mexicans granted him exile here, and eventually ended up killing him.  They obviously don’t care too much about the upkeep of his abode either.  He loved his chickens though, and spent hours caring for them.

It is a sad statement, his house.  After his first assassination attempt, they bricked in windows and added guard towers.  The president at the time called for his home to re-enforced.  All his doorways were made smaller, real small, and steel doors added.  Walking through his house and going from room to room is like being in a submarine, the doorways are so small and cramped.  He, like his ideas, was dull.  Supposedly he and wife relished the stripped back living.  His house plain and an obvious example of what the great revolution gets you-nothing, but death. Man, and believe me there are some very massive bullet holes in the wall of his wife’s bedroom to serve as a reminder of what happens when you piss a lot of people off.   

Giant bullet holes in Trotsky's wall

Our young visiting guest was very amusing through all of this.  She kept asking who this guy was and why was he important.  After going through his house and yard, we walk back to the square to go buy some cheese and get a coffee.  The young visitor makes such a profound statement while walking down the sidewalk, “I guess I will have to go home and look through Netflix, and see if there is a good documentary about him”.

We sit and have a very tasty and fluffy cappuccino at this Italian place.  We all talk of what a pleasant surprise the day has been.  I am particularly happy to have visited both homes of these dissidents.  When we get home, I ask our visitor to punch up Isaac Hayes on the internet.  There, in the first row of images the computer spits out, is the very image that the ‘artist’ used to depict the black sect of the four races. “Hey, didn’t he die?  Who is doing the voice of Chef now in South Park?”  the young guest asks.